


Unembarrassed

by tastewithouttalent



Category: Bakuman
Genre: Blow Jobs, Developing Relationship, Embarrassment, Established Relationship, First Time, M/M, No Plot/Plotless, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-03
Updated: 2017-03-03
Packaged: 2018-09-24 04:52:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,050
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9703082
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tastewithouttalent/pseuds/tastewithouttalent
Summary: "'A proposition,' Niizuma repeats, with such deliberate intention on each syllable it’s clear that he has confused the actual source of Fukuda’s uncertainty. 'I want to make an offer to you, Fukuda-sensei.'" Niizuma is direct and Fukuda is compliant.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [glueskin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/glueskin/gifts).



“Fukuda-sensei,” Niizuma says, projecting his voice into the clear, carrying range more suited for the outdoors than the enclosed space of the apartment they’re currently in. “I have a proposition to make to you.”

Fukuda blinks hard. It’s not that Niizuma’s words are all that difficult to make sense of, at least by themselves. In another circumstance he thinks he could respond without any hesitation at all before finding voice for his reply. It’s just that he’s currently on top of Niizuma, with one hand wandering up under the soft weight of the other’s sweater and his legs tangled with the other’s over the sheets of Niizuma’s bed, and it’s been several minutes since he traded in verbal coherency for the distracting heat of Niizuma’s soft mouth under his and the little wordless noises in the other’s throat as Fukuda shifts against him.

“Yeah,” he says, and then blinks again and shakes his head in some attempt to collect himself. “What?”

“A proposition,” Niizuma repeats, with such deliberate intention on each syllable it’s clear that he has confused the actual source of Fukuda’s uncertainty. “I want to make an offer to you, Fukuda-sensei.”

“You don’t have to call me that,” Fukuda reminds him, falling back to the familiar rhythm of this particular protest while he tries to collect himself from the haze of heat he had fallen into. “I don’t mind if you call me Shinta.”

“Shinta-sensei, then,” Niizuma says without missing a beat, and Fukuda groans resignation.

“Whatever,” he says, feeling his mouth tug against the threat of the smile that never fails to break free when he’s with Niizuma. “What’s up?”

“I’ve been doing some research,” Niizuma begins with the intent focus he always has when he’s explaining some process. Fukuda rather doubts they’ll get to the point anytime soon, or at least until Niizuma has finished covering all the relevant details of the story he wants to touch on, but he doesn’t particularly mind; he has a few hours of free time to spend with the other, and much though he would like to continue with the kissing they’ve been doing he’s always charmed by the enthusiasm of the other’s stories when he gets going.

“Uh huh,” Fukuda says, shifting his weight so he can settle himself to lie over Niizuma’s hips and brace an elbow at the mattress to catch his chin in his hand. “Is this a story idea or something?”

“No,” Niizuma says with perfect calm. He reaches out to feather his fingers through Fukuda’s hair, catching his fingertips against the long fall of it like he’s testing the texture of it against his skin. “It’s a personal one.”

Fukuda’s eyebrows go up. “Alright.”

“I was speaking to Ashirogi Muto,” Niizuma begins, hitting that clear, deliberate tone that always makes him sound formal regardless of the subject matter at hand. “Since they have experience in matters of the heart.”

“Hey,” Fukuda protests, feeling his mouth start to draw down onto a frown. “Since when do you need advice on relationships? You’re already dating me.” He frowns harder as a possibility presents itself to him. “Did you want advice on how to dump me?”

“No, no, no,” Niizuma says, lifting a hand to wave through the air in a gesture far more theatrical than the particular moment requires. “Of course not, Shinta-sensei, I would speak to you directly if that were the case.”

“Thanks,” Fukuda deadpans. “That’s reassuring.”

“You’re welcome,” Niizuma tells him without any trace of sarcasm in his tone. Fukuda isn’t entirely sure his own irony carried across at all, but he doesn’t try to push the point to clarity. “As I was saying. I was speaking to Ashirogi Muto to get their advice.”

Fukuda resettles himself over Niizuma’s legs. “Sure, okay.”

“They proved less helpful than I had hoped,” Niizuma continues. “I considered speaking with Azuki-san, but Miyoshi-san offered me some recommendations instead and they proved most valuable. I’ve been studying them and I believe I’m ready to put the ideas into practice.”

“Okay,” Fukuda says again, still willing to offer agreement even as he can feel his forehead crease with confusion. “What kinds of ideas?”

“It’ll be easier to show you,” Niizuma tells him, his attention wandering against the fit of his fingers into Fukuda’s hair instead of fixing on the other’s gaze. “I’m not clear yet on the terminology that is usually used for these kinds of endeavors.”

Fukuda raises an eyebrow. “That’s foreboding,” he says. “Am I going to regret agreeing to this?”

“Hmm.” Niizuma lifts a hand to his face, catching his chin in his hand and tapping against his lips with his index finger. “I don’t believe so. It appears to be quite satisfying for all involved, from what I’ve seen.”

Fukuda probably should refuse. He knows he should, or should at least ask for more details; it’s always hard to predict how reasonable or unreasonable Niizuma’s ideas are going to be, it’s all but a safety precaution to get more information on something before he commits wholeheartedly to it. But Niizuma’s blinking wide-eyed at him, his whole expression glowing with anticipation, and Fukuda’s never been very good at being careful, and he’s only worse at refusing Niizuma anything he wants.

“Alright,” he says, and draws his hand fitting under Niizuma’s shirt down to press ticklish sensation against the curve of the other’s ribs so Niizuma gasps and shudders with the friction. “But I get to stop you if I want to.”

“Of course,” Niizuma manages, twisting sideways to break free from the drag of Fukuda’s fingertips over his ribs. “That’s very important, Miyoshi-san told me.” That’s a little worrying too -- Fukuda frowns at the prickle of uncertainty that threatens the back of his thoughts -- but Niizuma is pushing himself to upright and reaching to move Fukuda’s hand away from his skin without wasting any time in delay.

“You’ll need to turn over,” he says, and he’s reaching for Fukuda’s shoulder as he speaks, elegant fingers curling in to brace hard against the other’s arm. Fukuda’s eyebrows jump up, his mouth catches onto the start of a smile at Niizuma’s sudden action, but he doesn’t try to resist at all. He topples over onto his back, landing hard enough on the soft of the mattress for his breath to huff out of him all at once, and Niizuma is moving to climb in over him as rapidly as Fukuda goes down, bracing his hand hard against the other’s shoulder like he’s trying to pin him down before he makes any attempt at breaking free. Fukuda’s breath catches in his chest, his heart picking up speed just at this display of dominance from Niizuma over him, and then Niizuma’s hand is sliding from his shoulder down to weight at the middle of his chest and Fukuda gets the strong and unavoidable suspicion that he has ended up far over his head in this.

“Niizuma-kun,” he says, tentative on the syllables as he feels his way through the conversation. “What exactly are you doing?”

“You shouldn’t call me that,” Niizuma informs him. He has his head ducked down, his hair falling to cast irregular shadows across his face; his gaze is fixed on Fukuda’s shirt, his attention drawing down with deliberate care like he’s fitting the shape of a story against the span of the other’s body under his. “Since I’m calling you Shinta-sensei.”

“You don’t really have to call me sensei, even,” Fukuda starts, his attention slipping sideways to hold to the detail of Niizuma’s words; and then Niizuma’s hand slips down by inches, dragging against his chest and over his stomach to the waistband of his pants, and Fukuda’s breath stalls to a sudden, startled whine in the back of his throat.  
“ _Ah_ ,” he blurts. “What are you _doing_ , Nii--Eiji-kun?”

“I’m taking our relationship to the next level,” Niizuma says without any trace of self-consciousness in his voice or across the pale of his cheeks. His fingers are curling in against the belt of Fukuda’s jeans. Fukuda can’t quite remember how breathing is meant to work. “I think it’s time, Shinta-sensei.”

“The next level,” Fukuda repeats, and then Niizuma pulls his belt free of the buckle and he makes a desperate noise in the back of his throat and throws his hand out to catch at the other’s wrist to hold him still. “ _Wait_. What does that _mean_?”

Niizuma looks back up to Fukuda’s face. His eyes are wide and clear, his whole expression absolutely, transparently unconcerned. Fukuda feels like his heart is going to hammer right out of his chest. Niizuma’s head angles to the side, just by an inch, like he’s trying to get a read on the other’s expression; when he blinks his lashes dip soft over the familiar color of his eyes.

“I thought you would know,” he says. “I want to go down on you, Shinta-sensei.”

Fukuda hears the sound he makes -- a faint, whimpering exhale, so far in the back of his throat it’s more vibration against his throat than actual noise -- as if at a great distance. In the immediate present, in his actual experience of his body, the only thing he can hear is a strange echoing in his ears, as rationality stages a counterattack on the first incandescent surge of heat that hits him and sweeps through as if it intends to wipe away every piece of reason from his existence. Niizuma is kneeling over him, Niizuma has his pants half undone and his gaze fixed on Fukuda’s face and his lips parted and--and Fukuda gasps a breath, and tightens his grip on the other’s wrist as if that will somehow grant him more self-control.

“ _What?_ ”

“I want to go down on you,” Niizuma repeats with such unabashed clarity that it sends a whole new flush of heat through every fiber of Fukuda’s body. “Is that too euphemistic? That’s what they called it in the manga, when they didn’t just go for it right from the beginning.” He blinks again, straightens his head. “I want to give you a blow job.”

Fukuda whimpers again. “You--I’m...you _can’t_.”

“Why not?” Niizuma is gazing at Fukuda with that all-in attention, now, in that way he has that makes Fukuda feel like the rest of the world is dissolving around him, like there’s nothing truly real for Niizuma but Fukuda right in front of him, like Niizuma’s attention is unravelling all Fukuda’s reality as well to leave just the two of them caught together. “Do you not want me to?”

Fukuda can feel the pulse of heat that runs through him, can feel the wave of desire that surges down the whole of his spine to flush him hard against the inside of his jeans. “No,” he grates out. “No, I mean, I do. I do want you to.” He closes his mouth and swallows hard. “Very much.”

“I do too,” Niizuma says. “We’re dating each other, aren’t we?” He tugs against the hold Fukuda has against the delicate bones of his wrist and Fukuda finds his grip giving way, finds his hand falling heavy to the sheets next to him as Niizuma returns to sliding his belt loose of the front of his pants. “This is a normal experience for boyfriends to have with each other.”

“I know,” Fukuda says, hearing his voice dropping into defensive depth as Niizuma lets his belt fall across the bed next to them and reaches for his pants, where the strain of the fabric makes it _very_ clear exactly what Fukuda’s physical preferences on the question are. Fukuda can feel his face start to burn with self-consciousness, can feel the heat of want in his veins converting smoothly into a blush that spreads all across the whole of his face; he sets his jaw and tells himself firmly that there’s nothing to be ashamed of, that this is a _perfectly_ normal reaction. It doesn’t help very much. “That doesn’t mean it’s normal for _us_.”

“That’s because we’ve never done it before,” Niizuma says with that particular variety of unassailable logic that makes Fukuda feel like his sense of balance is tilting away from him, like the whole orientation of the world shifted while he wasn’t paying attention. When Niizuma lifts his head to blink up at Fukuda he looks completely unfazed, without the least trace of embarrassment anywhere across his features. “It can be normal after we try it.” His gaze drops from Fukuda’s eyes to Fukuda’s cheeks, his attention lingering there as his head tilts to the side. “Shinta-sensei, are you embarrassed?”

“No,” Fukuda says so quickly that he might as well have screamed _yes_.

Niizuma’s head tips farther to the side. “Are you sure?” he asks, blinking focused attention at the other like he’s struggling to make sense of what he’s seeing. “You look like you’re embarrassed.” He lifts a hand from the front of Fukuda’s pants and reaches out towards the other’s face instead, his fingertips stretching over the gap between them. “Your face is quite red.”

“Fuck,” Fukuda says, and lets himself fall back to lie flat on the bed so he can angle an arm across his face. “ _Yes_ , I’m embarrassed.”

“Ah.” Niizuma’s hand drops, his fingertips catching to skim against the front of Fukuda’s shirt instead of continuing to reach for his face. “Why?”

“Because I’m…” Fukuda waves a hand in the general direction of his hips, feeling his face burn the hotter even under the shadow of his arm. “And all we’ve been doing is talking.”

“Yes,” Niizuma says, his tone still considering. “We’re going to be doing more soon, though.”

Fukuda huffs a laugh that strains harsh in the back of his throat. “Yeah,” he says. “I am definitely keeping that in mind.”

“Okay,” Niizuma says, and his hand drops back to the front of Fukuda’s jeans. His fingers slide just against the inside of the other’s waistband; Fukuda has to press his lips tight together to keep from whimpering, has to exert a conscious force of will to keep from bucking up against Niizuma’s touch. “You’ll tell me if you want me to stop, Shinta-sensei?”

“Yeah,” Fukuda says, even though he feels like he might just melt straight through the bed underneath him from how red his face is going and how hot his blood is running in his veins. “I’ll tell you.” He takes a breath, swallows in a deliberate effort to clear his throat. “Keep going.”

“Okay,” Niizuma agrees again, and he does, tugging carefully against Fukuda’s jeans to slide the button free of the fabric with the focused attention he brings to everything he does. Fukuda takes a few careful breaths, testing the way they fit against the inside of his chest, and then he lifts his arm very slightly from his face so he can look down past the barrier of it at Niizuma kneeling next to him on the bed.

Niizuma’s head is ducked down, his hair falling in front of his face; all Fukuda can see of him is the part of his lips and the occasional shift of his mouth as he offers some faint noise of effort while working Fukuda’s clothes free. Fukuda’s zipper slides down, Niizuma’s fingers fit under the weight of the denim, and when he pushes at the fabric Fukuda can feel the relief as his clothes slide loose around his hips to free his cock from all but the thin weight of his boxers. His face is still red, he can still feel self-consciousness threatening against the length of his spine and catching his breathing on tension in his chest, but Niizuma isn’t looking away, and his concentrated focus is somehow soothing enough to ease away Fukuda’s initial surge of self-consciousness. It’s not as if Niizuma’s never seen a dick, after all, not at if this is the other’s first experience with an erection; and then Niizuma reaches out, and presses his palm down against Fukuda’s boxers, and Fukuda doesn’t stand a chance of fighting back the groan in his throat any more than he can restrain the sharp upward motion his hips make.

“Do you like that too?” Niizuma asks, his tone resonant with curiosity as his palm grinds down against Fukuda’s length like he’s testing the shape of the other’s body at his hand. “I like this better than anything else, usually, when I’m by myself.”

“Oh,” Fukuda breathes, and that shouldn’t be a surprise, it’s not like Niizuma has ice for blood, Fukuda _knew_ he must have -- but it’s different like this, with Niizuma’s slender fingers curling in against the shape of Fukuda’s cock inside his boxers and the clear image of Niizuma panting into heat under the weight of that same hand pressing against himself. “ _Fuck_ , Eiji.”

Niizuma’s gaze jumps up from the angle of his hand to Fukuda’s face. “I like that,” he says, honesty clear and immediate on his tongue. “You should do that more.”

Fukuda blinks. “What?”

“You called me just Eiji,” Niizuma says, his whole focus caught to Fukuda’s face as if that’s the only thing he’s seeing, as if his fingers aren’t sliding up to hook under the elastic waistband of Fukuda’s boxers. “I like it.”

“Oh.” Fukuda hadn’t even realized; the name had spilled somewhere from the heat inside his chest, had pulled free of too many repeated fantasies when there was no one but his own distracted attention to hear what name he offered. He doesn’t know what to say, can feel his face heating with embarrassment again; but Niizuma is watching him like he’s waiting for a response, or maybe for agreement, and Fukuda has to find some kind of an answer to offer. He closes his mouth, swallows hard. “Good.”

Niizuma nods, like they’ve just decided something clearly between them. “Yes,” he says, and then he’s pulling at the edge of Fukuda’s boxers, and Fukuda only has time for a brief, startled inhale before the fabric is sliding away to free the flushed length of his cock for the open air of the room. His breathing catches, self-consciousness spiking high again; but Niizuma isn’t watching his expression to see the way Fukuda’s face goes scarlet, he’s looking down instead, sliding back over the bed as he tips himself in lower over the other’s body.

“Keep calling me that,” he says, his tone so casual it nearly disguises the order of the words, and then he’s ducking in with no more warning than that, his lips parting as quickly as Fukuda gasps an inhale of sudden anticipation. Niizuma’s leaning over him, Niizuma’s going to--and then Niizuma _does_ , and all the breath in Fukuda’s lungs rushes out of him in a wave so sudden he can feel it breaking against the inside of his chest.

“ _Oh_ ,” he blurts. “ _Eiji_ ” because Niizuma is sliding down over him, his lips pressed close against the flushed-sensitive heat of Fukuda’s length, and Fukuda can feel the shudder of heat that comes with the contact purr up the whole length of his spine like it’s looking for a grounding-out point. He wants to buck up for more, wants to flinch back from the overwhelming sensation, and Niizuma is pressing his lips tighter, is sucking friction against Fukuda as he dips down like he’s trying to pull the other farther back into the heat of his mouth by suction alone. It spikes heat into Fukuda’s veins, stutters his thoughts out-of-rhythm as he gasps for air, and whatever self-consciousness he had is evaporating, swept clear out of his attention by the fantasy of Niizuma’s mouth on him made immediately, overwhelmingly real.

“Eiji,” Fukuda says again, his voice cracking in the back of his throat without any chance on his part to stop it. “Oh my _god_.”

“Mm,” Niizuma hums, the sound running through Fukuda’s body as he pulls up and away to lift his head and blink wide-eyed attention at the other. His mouth is damp, his lips flushed; as Fukuda stares Niizuma catches his lower lip under his upper and sucks like he’s collecting the taste of the other’s skin over his tongue. “Does it feel good, Shinta-sensei?”

“God,” Fukuda says, because the shaky interjection is the only thing he can think to offer as a response to the other’s question. “Yeah. Yes, it feels _great_.”

“I’m glad,” Niizuma says, and he’s ducking down again, tipping his chin so his hair falls over his face once more. “I’ve never done this before and I wasn’t sure I was doing it right.”

“You’re doing fine as far as I’m concerned,” Fukuda says with a little more honesty than he quite intended to offer. His heart is racing in his chest, his whole body feels radiant with the heat spilling like flame through his veins; he doesn’t have to think to reach out for the dark fall of Niizuma’s hair, doesn’t have to have any rationality at all to fit his fingers into the shadows so he can push the strands up and away from the other’s face. Niizuma’s gaze lifts, his attention coming back to Fukuda’s features, and Fukuda braces his free arm under himself so he can push up off the bed to get a better line of sight to the illumination casting Niizuma’s expression to clarity for his gaze.

“Keep going,” Fukuda says, and Niizuma is obeying immediately, ducking his head down and leaning in before Fukuda can backtrack himself into a request instead of the demand the words made of his tone. Niizuma’s mouth presses down over Fukuda again, the slick heat of his lips and tongue drawing down to encompass the flush of the other’s length, and Fukuda makes a helpless sound in the back of his throat as he watches the other take him into his mouth. It’s different when he can see, different to watch the soft of Niizuma’s lips catch and drag against the flushed length of Fukuda’s cock, different when he can see the dip of Niizuma’s lashes over his eyes as he focuses on the shift of his mouth rather than what visual input he can get from his current position. Fukuda can see the line of Niizuma’s throat tighten as he pulls suction hard over Fukuda’s length, can see the give of the other’s lips as he presses his mouth closer; and then Niizuma draws his tongue up over him, pulling experimental friction over the whole length of Fukuda’s cock, and Fukuda’s chest flexes to offer a desperate noise to spill to heat over his tongue.

“ _Eiji_ ,” he groans, but Niizuma isn’t pulling away, and Fukuda doesn’t want him to; Niizuma is pressing in closer instead, urging his lips farther down over Fukuda’s length as he takes the other back across the drag of his tongue, and Fukuda can’t catch his breath and can’t look away from the focused attention Niizuma is giving to him. Fukuda’s fingers are tightening in Niizuma’s hair, his grip going to a fist in spite of his best efforts to be gentle, but if he’s worried about roughness Niizuma seems to have no such concerns. He’s taking Fukuda far back in his throat, licking up over the other like he’s testing the shape of Fukuda against his mouth; and then he draws up, almost off the other completely, and comes back down in a rush that Fukuda can feel run all down his spine in a long shudder of appreciation. Fukuda’s fingers fist at Niizuma’s hair, Fukuda’s breathing catches high and wanting in his chest, and Niizuma is moving faster over him, bracing a hand against the sheets under them and setting a rhythm so quick and certain that Fukuda can feel his composure unravelling with every slide of the other’s lips over his skin.

“Eiji,” he says, and he knows he’s repeating himself but words are failing him, rationality is giving way, even his sense of himself as anything other than heat thrumming in answer to Niizuma moving over him is sliding free of his grasp to leave him shaking against the bed. Niizuma is working over him with concentrated attention, with as much focus for his actions as he brings to his drawing, and Fukuda can’t look away from him, can’t stop staring at the slick slide of Niizuma’s mouth pulling damp against his length. He’s gasping, panting for air with every inhale he takes, and Niizuma isn’t slowing, isn’t making any attempt to pull away for instruction or even to hesitate. Fukuda’s heart is pounding, his legs are straining; and then Niizuma licks against the head of his cock, the drag of his tongue urging surging sensation in its wake, and Fukuda can feel certainty run through him as the tension of anticipation gives way to the calm of inevitability.

“Oh god,” he says, his voice straining to strange heights as his throat flexes, as his body goes taut with expectation. “Eiji, I’m going to--you should--” and Niizuma looks up, his gaze cutting up from under the shadow of his lashes to cling to Fukuda’s features, and Fukuda’s whole body goes taut with helpless response to the focus in those eyes.

“ _Oh_ ,” he groans, “ _Eiji_ ” and his hips are jerking up, rocking through a sharp upward motion, and his whole body goes radiant with the rush of pleasure that hits him under Niizuma’s gaze. His fingers are tensing, his mouth is open, his cock is twitching; and Niizuma is staring at him, his eyes wide and pupils blown to dark that holds to Fukuda’s face as he watches the other come. His lips are still pressing close against Fukuda’s length, his tongue is still hot at the other’s skin; Fukuda can see his lashes flutter in the brief moment before Niizuma’s throat works as he swallows to clear his mouth. The pressure alone is enough to make Fukuda groan, enough to tip his head back over a last shudder of heat; and then he’s left gazing up at the ceiling, his heart pounding and his whole body languid with the pleasure Niizuma urged out of him. Niizuma stays where he is for a moment, like he’s waiting to make sure the last of Fukuda’s orgasm has passed; and then he draws back all at once, moving so quickly he’s taking a breath while Fukuda is still shuddering from the friction of Niizuma’s mouth sliding away from him.

“That was interesting,” Niizuma declares, lifting his hand from the sheets to touch against the damp clinging to his lips. Fukuda lifts his head and blinks hard in an attempt to steady his attention on the other again; he can see Niizuma’s throat work, can see consideration forming itself to a conclusion behind the shift of the other’s lashes over his eyes. “Did you enjoy it, Shinta-sensei?”

“God,” Fukuda says, struggling through this frail attempt at speech while he waits for his heartbeat to ease into something like an ordinary rhythm. He blinks once, twice, huffs a hard exhale. “ _Damn_.”

“You sounded like you were enjoying yourself,” Niizuma observes with that same blunt objectivity that was so embarrassing a few minutes ago. Fukuda can hardly muster even the memory of self-consciousness for his heat-sated body now. “Do you want to try it again sometime?”

Fukuda might still be struggling with speech, but his laugh comes fast enough to bring a simple wave of sincerity with it. He lets his fingers ease from Niizuma’s hair, lets his touch draw down to fit against the other’s neck; when he moves it’s to push himself to sit up completely, so he can lean in towards Niizuma still kneeling across the sheets between his legs.

“Yeah,” he says, and tips his head in to bump his forehead to the other’s. “Yes. Definitely I want to do that again sometime.”

“Oh good,” Niizuma says, lifting his chin in unselfconscious echo of Fukuda’s movement, like he’s reaching for the weight of a kiss against the other’s lips. “I want to too.”

“Mm,” Fukuda hums, and then he has to catch Niizuma’s mouth with his own to press the full warmth of his gratitude against the other’s lips. Niizuma makes a noise of surprised pleasure against Fukuda’s mouth, with the same vague shock that he always seems to have that Fukuda is kissing him, and Fukuda is just starting to tighten his hold at the back of the other’s neck and lean closer to deepen the kiss when Niizuma pulls back with no apparent awareness of how jarring the motion is to Fukuda’s intentions.

“What about you?” he asks, blinking attention at Fukuda in front of him. “Are you interested?”

Fukuda stares at him, at a complete loss as to Niizuma’s intended subject. “What?”

“In switching our roles,” Niizuma says. “It doesn’t happen much in the reference material I’ve been using, but I haven’t decided which I’d be most comfortable in myself.”

“Reference material,” Fukuda says, trying to make sense of this particular point; and then, as his memory retreats back over the span of the last few minutes: “Wait, _Miyoshi_ gave you advice?” as the slow dawn of horror begins to set in. “What did she give you as--” and, finally, the rest of Niizuma’s words settle into his awareness, and even his embarrassment at Niizuma talking to Miyoshi about their sex life gives way for a moment of stunning clarity.

“Oh,” Fukuda says, blinking understanding at Niizuma in front of him. “You want me to give you a blow job.”

“Someday,” Niizuma says diffidently. “I’d like to know what it’s like. If you don’t want to I’m sure--”

“No” Fukuda says, fast, to cut off whatever continued excuses Niizuma is ready to offer on his behalf. “I want to.” He reaches out for Niizuma, catching his fingers against the soft of the other’s sweatpants to pin them close against a narrow hip. “That’s a great idea.”

Niizuma blinks at him. “Right now?”

“No time like the present,” Fukuda tells him, and leans in to press his mouth against Niizuma’s for a brief moment of heat before he pulls the other in against him so he can topple them over to pin Niizuma back to the sheets under him again.

He’ll be embarrassed later. Right now, he has his hands full with more important things.


End file.
